


Black Russian

by Kettugasm



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:45:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kettugasm/pseuds/Kettugasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three parts vodka to keep her sloshed, two parts coffee liqueur for all those mornings trying to sober up, and add just a splash of Jager, just to get that ol’ licorice taste he loves so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Russian

**Author's Note:**

> [[ I really do like this one a lot. It's a weird pairing, I'll admit, but I really like it. The ratings are there because... well... it gets kinda dicey later on. Nothing too bad, but, well, see for yourselves. Writing this really made me see how much of a total creep Slick is, and I can't say I'm complaining ]]

You’re not sure how you got from point A to point B, but you sure as Hell don’t care all that much right now. Tonight’s been in a surplus of that kind of attitude. You know this place, this old dive, but you don’t know the dame whose wrapped her arm around yours. She looks young, baby-faced. You’d feel bad if you weren’t so sloshed, the liquor making you check her even more.

She’s a pale girl, then again, most of her species is. Skin’s not as white as a sheet, like those giddy detective fucks you’ve met in the past. There’s an unfamiliar pink tint to it, which has long-since turned red, especially in the face. The skin’s one thing, but her hair takes you most by surprise. You can’t remember the last time you saw golden locks like her’s. You pause to inwardly chuckle, Goldilocks, that’s another nickname your inebriated mind has cooked up for your companion. The only thing that you really can’t stand about her is that she’s just an inch or two taller than you.

You _hate_ taller broads.

A scowl creeps at the corners of your lips as you lift the bottle to take a rough swig of Johnny Walker, your glass in a shattered lump of glass on the other side of the bar. You’re pretty sure some shards are still lodged in that fucker’s skull, not that you mind, but that’s what he deserved for playing billiards so loudly when you’re trying to have a good time. You _hate_ that fucking game with all of your being, and hear those punks bitching about whoever sunk that eight ball really put you on edge.

You’re not even sure why billiards exists in this town. In _your_ goddamn town.

Before you can continue to hate the ever-loving shit out of a massive amount of things and people, you feel a tug on your arm, looking over at that lush’s face with a bit of a sneer. All night she’s been leading you on, making slurred advances, but never really moving on in. You take a moment to wonder what the fuck her problem is, but the whiskey, and god knows what else is in your system, makes you throw all your cares as far as your rocketed the shot glass.

There’s a few minutes when she’s talking to you, but your brain feels about as sharp as Deuce’s bullcock cane, (why the fuck does he even have that thing, you pause to question to yourself). She blabbers on and on, all night having drunkenly gabbed about some guy she’s crushed hard on for a while, but you don’t care. You don’t care about much these days.

Your mind wanders back to her age, surely she can’t be too young, but it’s not like you have any morals to who jump in the sack with. As long as there’s a pulse, you’ll probably sleep with whoever wants a romp. Anything to try and distract you, any body you get to touch that doesn’t remind you of _her_. Inches of flesh that don’t feel like _her’s_ , a mouth you can kiss without being bitten and bloodied. But it’s never enough, no matter who you fuck around with, is it?

Finally, you just kind of growl at her. You know you’re trying to say something to tell her to shut her yap, but the liquor’s really gotten to you this time. You’re rarely this slurry, and as you try to stand up, you realize you feel like you’ve got yourself a swell pair of cement shoes. Stumbling, you pull your drinking partner along, and she doesn’t seem to mind all that much. Reaching into your pocket, trying to prevent your staggering ass from tipping over, you pull out some dark bills and slam them onto the bar top. Money is something you really don’t give much of a shit about, since your supply seems pretty endless. You know you don’t have to pay for drinks, women, even new suits, but sometimes you pity the poor fucks who live here with nothing in their pockets or bellies.

Not that you care.

It’s a hard go, but you manage to make it back to the Crew headquarters a few blocks down the dark streets, and it’s only there that you realize one of the girl’s hands is now firmly around your waist. Through the drunken haze, you see a figure, one of your boys. You’re not sure if it’s Hearts or Droog, but it sure ain’t Deuce since he’s not that tall. You don’t know what you say, but it’s something belligerent, and whoever it is backs off. There’s a tone laced with disappointment, maybe even pity, and that pins the tail on the fucking donkey.

Droog, yeah, the smell of his after shave reassures your deduction.

For a moment, you stare at his retreating form, narrowed eyes softening up a bit. You know he’s worried about you, that he cares, that he’s probably the best of the Crew. Hell, you _know_ he’s so much better. Deuce and Hearts are good guys, no doubt about that, but there’s just something about Droog that makes him like the glue that holds everyone together. He’s a saint compared to you, and the thought of that makes a sour taste burn in your throat.

You’re not sure how you got back to your room, but your life is now nothing but moans, rhythmic thrusts and sloppy makeouts. You don’t really seem bothered by the fact that you’re in bed with a dame, and you look old enough to be her father, in human terms of course. You’re so much older than that. But none of that matters now as you keep going, having enough stamina to last the rest of the night. You’re pretty sure while resting after Round Three, that she’s passed out from exhaustion and the booze, but you don’t really give a shit.

Round Four, (and a half) ends as your body trembles, back arched over the girl’s sleeping form. You collapse on the free side of the bed, arm over your eyes as he breathe hard. Your body’s spent, and your mind’s starting to spiral downwards into an even deeper void.

Then everything goes black.

You don’t know what time it is when you wake up, but you have a raging headache. Your eyes struggle to focus on the ceiling above you, but the task seems too difficult for you. Closing them once more, you turn over, already knowing there’s no sleeping body next to you. You’re not sure what time of the night, morning, day, whenever the broad skipped out, but you’re kind of glad she’s gone. You’re not one to have those ridiculous romantic cliché mornings, the kind when the fella rolls over just as the dame does, and they share a sleepy “Good Morning” together. Ugh, the thought makes you feel a bit sick.

Rising out of bed, you throw on something so you’re not a nude lunatic, wandering about the place. You head out to the kitchen, your nostrils flaring as you smell something burnt. Fuck. Deuce must have tried to help cook breakfast, no wonder it smells like the whole goddamn place burned down. With a gruff noise, you throw yourself down into a chair at the table, head and hands on the top of it. Although you don’t see it happen, you feel a warm mug slid carefully into your right hand, which you grip weakly. Even if they can’t see, well shit, _especially_ since they can’t see your face, you crack the smallest of smiles as you hear the familiar voices around you.

“Good mornin’, boss.”


End file.
